


secrets of two

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyswap, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “I told you—” Geralt’s voice, through clenched teeth “—not to touch it.”Jaskier blinked a few times as the pain finally subsided. He’d most definitely survived worse, especially having been Geralt’s travel companion for so many years. “Well,” he said, rolling his shoulders, only to pause, eyes widening, because that was not his voice.He looked over at Geralt, who most definitely was not Geralt. It was like looking in a mirror.“Oh, fuck,” he said in a voice far too deep.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 671





	secrets of two

**Author's Note:**

> there is very brief mention of sexual harassment, so pls tread carefully! 
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier should really start listening to Geralt. He had told him not to touch the sculpture, and yet he had, because it wasn’t like it was _scary_ or anything—just a portrait of two women, holding each other, decaying and abandoned deep in the woods. But he had known instantly it was a mistake because the pain was _dizzying_.

So much so he stumbled and fell with a _thud_ , groaning loudly. “ _Geralt_.”

“I _told_ you—” Geralt’s voice, through clenched teeth “— _not_ to touch it.”

Jaskier blinked a few times as the pain finally subsided. He’d most definitely survived worse, especially having been Geralt’s travel companion for so many years. “Well,” he said, rolling his shoulders, only to pause, eyes widening, because _that was not his voice._

He looked over at Geralt, who most definitely was _not_ Geralt. It was like looking in a mirror.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he said in a voice far too deep.

Geralt—in his body?—stood up and brushed off his trousers, sneering. Jaskier had never seen that expression on his face before. It wasn’t a pretty one. “Yeah,” he said, dry as a desert. “Fuck is a bit of an understatement.”

*

Jaskier followed him back through the woods, only after touching the sculpture again and hoping it would turn them back. No such luck; they were apparently stuck like this for the foreseeable future because—

“We need a mage,” Geralt grumbled as he stopped, back at their camp for the night.

Jaskier almost wished he had a mirror, so he could admire himself. He wondered what Geralt looked like when he smiled, like one of those _big_ , unabashed smiles. “Oh,” he said as Geralt crouched next to the burnt pile of sticks that had been a fire just hours earlier and made a symbol with his hands. “Well, that’s not so bad.”

There were _plenty_ of mages.

Geralt’s hand fell limply to his side. “I can’t do it,” he said. “Fuck. Jaskier, over here.”

He shuffled over. He felt—weird, in Geralt’s body and for more reasons than just one. He was so _big_. They were about the same height, so that wasn’t too unsettling, but Geralt was undoubtedly bigger than him in other ways.

Felt like he was carrying some heavy pack on his back.

And his shoulders were so broad he knocked into things without meaning to.

“Give me your hand,” he said impatiently. Jaskier obeyed and he shaped his fingers. “Now focus, and—”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence; Jaskier’s fingers sparked and suddenly there was fire. Geralt glanced up at him for a moment, approvingly, before turning back to the fire. “I guess some things will come naturally to us,” he muttered almost thoughtfully.

Jaskier curled his fingers. “I—I can do magic,” he breathed, bright-eyed. “Geralt, I can—oh, _wow_.”

“Don’t be too impressed,” he replied as he stood up. “I can’t do half of what most mages can.”

Jaskier looked at him, unimpressed but not for that reason. “I’m a human, Geralt,” he said as if he needed reminding. “I can’t even do basic magic. To me, this—this is _amazing_.” Jaskier turned away suddenly and aimed his fingers at the trees in a symbol he had seen Geralt do a few times before. A slash appeared in the trunk of one of the trees, and birds flew away.

He jumped up and down, clapping his hands. But then—there was a sudden sharp pain in one of his knees and he lurched forward, folding in half as he pressed a hand to the knee—his left—with a gasp. “Okay,” he said, looking up. “What the _fuck?_ ”

Geralt squinted at him. It was weird, seeing his own face so expressive but in entirely new ways.

“What?” he asked, like it was nothing. “My knee bothers me sometimes.”

Jaskier let out a disbelieving laugh. “It feels like there is an arrow in my knee, Geralt. Being _twisted_.”

He just shrugged, like he didn’t understand Jaskier’s concern. Jaskier straightened back up. “You’ve been dealing with this?” he asked, still disbelieving. “Like, since we met?”

“Witchers aren’t _indestructible_ , Jaskier,” he said simply. Jaskier admittedly hadn’t really considered that before, and he felt a bit guilty. “We still deal with the aftermath of injuries too grave for magic to heal completely.”

Jaskier nodded slowly, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Geralt’s eyes flickered to his mouth. It must’ve been just as weird for him: seeing his own body, reacting in ways he normally didn’t. “Can I ask about it?”

Geralt breathed out through his nose. “You can,” he said finally, “ _after_ we settle down for the night.”

Without talking, they unrolled their bedrolls. After they were both settled, their bedrolls only separated by a few feet, Jaskier asked, “What happened?”

“It was early on,” he explained, on his back, staring up at the stars. “I was protecting a young girl. She must’ve gotten lost in the woods. There was a werewolf. I was young, and cocky, and I paid for it. She did not, thankfully. I stumbled into town with her. They took her away without even letting me know if her family was there.”

Jaskier watched him closely. He realized he could still see him, long after the moon had ducked behind a few trees. Right, mutated senses and all that.

“They chased me out of the town, even though I could barely walk.”

Jaskier frowned, feeling anger _for_ him. Humans could be so _cruel_. He would never understand it.

“I was able to make it, but my leg was almost numb by the time I crossed paths with a healer. She took one look at me and said, ”Oh, boy,“ and that’s how I knew I probably fucked up.”

Jaskier smiled slightly, though there was no real joy behind it. He reached out, across the grass, and placed a hand on Geralt’s— _his_ —arm. It was weird, touching himself like this. Geralt turned to look at him, though he knew he couldn’t see him.

“She healed the bulk of it, but told me there was no undoing _all_ of it.” Geralt sighed in his voice. “Normally it doesn’t bother me, but after a long day, or a particularly grueling fight…” He looked away again. “Well, it’s _a bit_ of a bother.”

Jaskier squeezed his arm. “That was fucking _painful_ , Geralt,” he said. “I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

“Hmm,” he replied, as he was ought to do when a conversation turned too serious for his liking. “You couldn’t have known; I never told you.”

Jaskier nodded, biting the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit. It was weird; these weren’t his teeth, or his cheek. “You should have,” he said finally, softly. “You don’t have to deal with everything on your own, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t reply, but Jaskier could see the expression on his face: thoughtful, almost sad.

They both fell asleep after that.

*

“Come on,” Geralt said in the morning. “Stop lazing around; we need to get this fixed as quickly as possible.”

Jaskier groaned as he sat up. It was morning, undoubtedly, the sun high in the sky. Roach snorted when she saw him. He smiled slowly.

“She thinks I’m _you_ ,” he said without missing a beat, looking way too pleased with himself.

Geralt looked affronted for a total of two seconds before he approached Roach, slowly, and she headbutted him in the chest, _hard_. He stumbled back a few steps; his strength had obviously not transferred through bodies.

“ _Roach_ ,” he said in almost comical disbelief. “It’s _me_.”

She stared at him with one, dark beady eye. Jaskier laughed as he stood up and walked over. “She’s a horse, Geralt,” he said, not unkindly, as he placed a hand on her head, scratching behind one of her ears. “You can’t expect too much.”

Roach nuzzled the palm of his hand. Geralt glared at them. Jaskier just laughed again, light and airy.

“Traitor,” he grumbled as he walked away.

It wasn’t until a few beats later that Jaskier realized that was the first time he had heard Geralt’s laugh.

*

Jaskier mounted Roach first and Geralt climbed on after—and honestly it just felt _wrong_. But Roach seemed perfectly pleased with it as she took off down the dirt road, bouncing them on her back.

“Is it a hard spell to break?” he asked once they’d been riding for a while.

Geralt’s arms—well, _his_ —were wrapped around his waist. Jaskier pointedly did not think too hard about _that_. “It’s not a spell,” he replied, “as much as a curse.” Jaskier did not like the sound of that. “But it’s not a very strong one, typically. It’s used as a prank among young mages.”

He let out a huff of laughter. “Have I ever mentioned that I _do not like_ mages?”

Because he really, really didn’t.

Though—he couldn’t say he disliked magic, especially after trying it.

“Huh,” he heard from behind him. Jaskier turned to look at him, still guiding Roach. Geralt was—oh, fuck, he was blushing. Well, it was _his_ face but—still, he had never seen him with that expression before. “Fuck, we need to stop.”

Jaskier didn’t miss a beat; he pulled Roach to a gentle stop and watched as Geralt stumbled off.

“What is it?” he asked worriedly. “Geralt, are you—”

He turned on his heels. “I have to… you know,” he said lamely, nodding at the woods.

Jaskier blinked—once, twice—before he grinned devilishly. “Oh.” He slipped off Roach. “Good idea.” He didn’t really have to piss, but it was a long trek. Better safe than sorry.

Geralt glared at him, unimpressed. Jaskier reached up and cupped the sides of his face. Using his thumbs, he lifted the corners of his mouth.

“There,” he said brightly. “Much better.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said gruffly as he turned back toward the trees.

Jaskier took one step before pausing and looking down. It wasn’t like he could _avoid it_ ; he really would need to relieve himself eventually, and they were lucky they had avoided it as long as they did, probably because they hadn’t drank much water.

Shrugging, he slipped a thumb under the hem of Geralt’s too–tight trousers and pulled them away from skin. He gasped dramatically. He had seen Geralt naked a few times, mostly while bathing, but always only quickly and _never_ had he focused too long on his dick for _obvious_ reasons. Geralt spun back around.

“ _What?”_ he asked.

Jaskier looked up. “You are hung like a—”

Geralt stomped forward and slapped a hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence,” he growled, unimpressed, “and I will cut your tongue out.”

“You mean, _your_ tongue—”

Geralt turned away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I cannot do this.”

*

After relieving themselves, and somehow _not_ killing each other, they remounted Roach and took off again. A few hours later, they had reached the closest town.

They both climbed off Roach, with Jaskier leading her, as they entered the town. It was still day, but only barely; the sun was low in the sky.

“Well?” he asked. “Where to?”

Geralt shifted on his feet. “We need to ask around, see if they have a mage living in town.”

Jaskier nodded. “Better if we part ways, then,” he said. “Meet back up at the market in an hour.”

Geralt stared at him for a long, silent moment before finally nodding. “Just—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”

“Hmm,” he said, already backing away with Roach. “I’ll try!”

Then he was gone in a flash, disappearing around a corner. Geralt shook his head, mostly fond, as he started off in a random direction. He stumbled across the local tavern and shrugged. _Why the fuck not?_

The tavern was packed, unexpectedly so, and he had to push his way through to the bar.

Geralt leaned on the bar. The bartender—a burly man—was at the other end, talking with a young woman. He sighed heavily, slumping against the bar.

“Hey.” A smooth, deep voice from his left.

Geralt turned; it was a man, broad-shouldered and smiling. He was unsettled, and he didn’t know why.

“Hello,” he said slowly. Normally he might’ve even ignored him, but they _were_ supposed to be asking locals about—“Hey,” he said suddenly, a little louder. “Is there a mage in town?”

He laughed, more of a huff than anything. “What do you need with a _mage_ , boy?”

Geralt blinked at him. _Boy?_ Jaskier was hardly a _boy_. “Is that any of your business?” he replied sharply.

“If you want an answer,” the man drawled, slowly, as he reached out and—Geralt startled, nearly jumping out of his skin, when he felt a hand on his back, _too low._ His hand slipped lower and lower as he leaned closer. “Then you better play _nice_ ,” he finished in his ear.

Geralt was so shocked he didn’t react for a total of four seconds.

Then he was punching the man in the face. Jaskier wasn’t very strong, but the man still went stumbling back, cursing under his breath, “ _Fuck_ you, you little—”

Geralt scrambled away from the bar and out of the tavern. He ran for the market without stopping.

*

Geralt caught sight of Jaskier— _himself_ —near a stall with Roach and ran over. His heart was beating like crazy. He hadn’t experienced _that_ in decades, not since he was a young boy. _Before_ the trials. “Come on,” he said. “I—I need to—”

Jaskier looked at him oddly. “Geralt,” he said, turning away from the stall. “What is it?”

He grabbed one of his arms. “Just—I need air. I mean, away from _here_.”

Jaskier nodded quickly and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Okay, okay,” he said as he led them away from the market.

He didn’t stop until they were out of town, near the path. Geralt lurched forward, bending in half, gasping for air. Jaskier rubbed his back.

“Geralt, what happened?” he asked worriedly. “You’re _scaring_ me.”

Geralt didn’t know _what_ was happening. He couldn’t breathe, his skin felt like it was _on fire._ He clawed at his throat, and Jaskier gently grabbed his hands. “Jaskier, I—I can’t—my throat feels like—”

“Oh,” he said, too soft. “Geralt, it’s okay. It’s okay. Just look at me.”

Geralt took a shaky breath and lifted his head. Jaskier squeezed his hands lightly.

“Count with me,” he said. Geralt just nodded dumbly. “One. Two. Three. Deep breaths. Just like that.”

Finally Geralt felt— _better_ , less like he was a fish out of water. Jaskier rubbed his back. He stared at his feet. “What the fuck was that?” he asked quietly. He startled, remembering the man’s hand on his back. “Jaskier,” he said, loudly, before he could answer. “You were—I was in the tavern and a man fucking tried to—”

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, really, but it wasn’t an utter lack of reaction.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, mouth twisting in a frown. “Look, you’re fine now, okay? It was just a little attack. I—I get them. Occasionally.”

Geralt almost laughed in disbelief. “ _Little?_ ” he parroted. “I felt like I was _dying_ , Jaskier.”

“Stuff like that happens, Geralt,” he said, firmly. “It’s not a—”

There was a rushing in his ears. “Stuff like that?” he repeated. “You mean, men _do_ that, Jaskier? _Often?_ ”

Jaskier folded his arms over his chest. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, turning away sharply. Geralt reached for him as he continued, “I asked around and I don’t think there’s a mage in town. We should go to the next town.”

Geralt grabbed his arm. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked almost desperately. Jaskier turned, slowly. “Did that ever happen—when _we_ were traveling together?”

“Maybe,” he answered, and Geralt squeezed his arm, _angry_ —at himself for not noticing, mostly. “I told you,” he continued softly, “I’m used to it.”

Geralt was in disbelief, through and through. “And you never did anything?”

“I did,” he replied sharply. “At first, but honestly it’s quicker—and cleaner—to just get out of there.”

Geralt released his arm. “Tell me,” he said. “If it happens again, tell me. Please.”

Jaskier smiled softly. “Okay,” he agreed easily enough. “Um. Thank you, Geralt.”

“Don’t,” he replied gruffly, “thank for me that.”

It was the least he could do, because he _cared_ about Jaskier and because no one deserved _that_.

*

They traveled to the next town. It was bigger, nicer. Jaskier pointedly did not suggest they part ways again, and all for the better because Geralt would not have let them. For both of their safeties.

They asked around the market and— _bingo_ —the town had a mage. A pretty woman on the outskirts of town, who mostly kept to herself unless the townsfolk needed her help and asked for it.

Geralt knocked—once, twice—and on the third knock the door opened. He had not been expecting—

“Triss,” he said. She looked good, _better_ than she had after the Battle of Sodden Hill.

She looked at him oddly before her eyes flickered to Jaskier in _his_ body. “Oh my,” she said with a hint of amusement. “This is certainly a problem.”

*

“Okay,” Triss said after she had drawn on the floor with chalk. “You, in that one. You, in the other.”

Jaskier stood in the middle of one of the sigils. “Is this going to be _painful?_ ” he asked, because he was a glutton for the truth.

She paused for a moment, too long. “Well, yes.”

He nodded. “Great.”

Geralt snorted, a few feet away in the other sigil. Triss approached them and took a deep breath, pressing the palms of her hands together. She started reciting something under her breath, hushed and quick. Jaskier glanced over.

Geralt smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. Jaskier smiled back.

As she continued reciting, the sigils started glowing around their feet. Jaskier’s skin started buzzing.

He heard a rushing in his ears, teeth clattering.

Finally there was a spark of light in the room, almost blinding, and he was thrown back out of the sigil, slamming into the wall. Jaskier gasped as he opened his eyes. Geralt was standing over him, back in his own body. “Hey.”

Jaskier smiled lightly. “Hey.”

*

Triss quickly left the room, mumbling something about, “uh, _tea_ , right, who wants tea?”, but Geralt knew her better than that. Geralt sat on the bed with Jaskier.

“Feels weird,” Jaskier said, speaking first. “Being back in my own body.”

Geralt snorted, “Bet you never thought you’d be saying _those_ words, hmm?”

“Not really, no,” he admitted, smiling slightly.

They were silent after that. Geralt was debating what to say when Jaskier suddenly lifted his head, high. “I don’t regret it,” he said firmly. “Any of it.”

Geralt looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”

“I’m glad,” he said, “that I learned more about you, and—” Jaskier paused, smiling almost slyly. “It was _fun_ , using magic for a bit.”

Geralt opened his mouth before realizing he didn’t know what to say, because he realized Jaskier _had a point._ He was glad if only because he knew what Jaskier had been going through, and now he could help him and stop those things from happening in the future. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly, “for never realizing you struggled in your own ways.”

“You kind of had your own, _bigger_ struggles,” he pointed out. “Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt hesitated for a split-second before he wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. He had missed this, holding Jaskier in his own body. They were a perfect fit. Jaskier smiled at him.

“I’m going to ask,” he started, “about a cream that might help with your knee.”

Geralt normally would’ve shut him down—“I don’t need that”—but he stopped himself, nodding. “Okay.”


End file.
